I should’ve stayed with Laura. All Laura wanted was for us to go to a Black college and get our education, together. Instead, I’m here.
Alfred is quiet for a moment, his mouth in a straight line.
“So, you were with a white woman, huh?”
Something about his tone makes my skin prickle. It wasn’t an observation, but more like a judgment.
I look up, and the entire kitchen is staring at me. Shorty’s eyes wide, Ozzy setting down his crates slow, Alfred’s face unreadable.
“I … I gotta get to debate.”
He nods, eyebrows raised as I excuse myself and head to the library.
Later, at dinner, whispers hit my back. Alfred sits with a few white inmates, talking in hushed tones. Shorty, Ozzy, and I sit at a long table alone in the canteen.
“Think you’ve made some of them a little mad,” Ozzy jokes.
“Don’t sweat it, homeboy,” Shorty says, shrugging it off. “They ain’t nothing to lose sleep over.”
“I’m cool,” I say even though my back feels tense.
The same white men that were congratulating me on my debate wins are icy cold upon greeting tonight, until all talk just stops and there is nothing left but silence.
* * *
In my moment of vulnerability, I let my guard down. If I had paid enough attention, I would have seen all the ways Alfred had been brainwashed by this place. The way he was proud of being a prisoner here, overly friendly with the guards and the white inmates. The way they made it seem like he had control, that he was one of them, when he was nothing but an informant, a snitch, even after everything he had been through in Tulsa. No matter how well-meaning this place is, it’s still a prison run by white men.
Should have taken the time to educate him on history, remind him who the real enemies are, show him the light. Help him be a guide for other Negroes, just looking to be free.
I wrote to the Honorable Elijah Muhammad about this, asking him why Black men refuse to see the light. He encouraged me to let Allah use me to be a tool of His teaching. To open the door and allow Allah to guide me.
* * *
Dearest Brother,
Your last letter made me so proud of you. It is so good to hear that you are corresponding with the Honorable Elijah Muhammad.
Also, to answer your questions, yes, in many ways Mom laid the foundation for us to follow Islam long before we met the Messenger, so it must be in divine order.
They pretended Mom was crazy for refusing to give her children pig meat and she suffered unimaginable consequences. Mom has always been a true and faithful servant of God. And Papa a true and faithful minister of God. Everything that happened resulted from a desire to destroy our family. Destroying our family killed Papa’s message like it did Mr. Garvey. But he had millions of followers worldwide. They will never destroy the truth. Allah will protect us, Malcolm.
We pray for you daily and cannot wait until you are with us again.
Your Brother,
Philbert
* * *
My family writes letters almost daily now. With each letter I learn something new about Islam. I hold on to their guidance with two hands, finding facts in my reading that support Mr. Muhammad’s teachings. I don’t want to just follow, I want to fully understand and be well versed in my faith. I want to be a scholar of Islam. Much like debating, if you know all the facts with unwavering certainty, no one can refute you. Mr. Muhammad said that Allah is always on the side of the righteous, on the side of one who’s true and pure.
I keep focused and do whatever tasks necessary without protest, all in order to return to my studies. As a child, I had so many unanswered questions: Why did they burn our home? Why do they call us niggers? Why are we not equal? Why do they call Black men boys? On and on. I wanted to ask Papa but he was gone. I wanted to ask Mom but she was gone, too. I wanted to ask Wilfred, Hilda, or Philbert, but they sent me away for stealing a chicken. I wanted to ask Mr. Ostrowski, but he said I was nothing but a nigger.
Now I am finding answers to all of my questions through the words of Islam. The words invigorate my soul, better than any drug could.
“Lights-out!”
At 10:00 p.m. on the dot, the dormitory lights shut down, leaving only a faint orange glow from the hall light.
A night patrolman passes my cell, his footsteps heavy. Once he’s far off, I leap to my feet, slipping the book from under my mattress and curling up reading.
You have to angle the book in such a way that the dim light can hit the page on the exact spot you want to read. It’s tricky to squint in such darkness until you can make out the words.
* * *
Findings in Genetics
Negro History
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
The Story of Civilization
The Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi
Days of Our Years
The Loom of Language
I feel reborn, like a new man in fresh skin, bursting with knowledge. I’m eager to share this knowledge with everyone I know and care about.
So I start writing letters.
They are simple at first, but then they grow into long essays, full of everything I’ve been learning through books and my family. Sometimes it takes me several pages just to say everything I am thinking.
I send a letter to Sammy the Pimp, West Indian Archie, Bumpy Johnson, and at least a dozen other known hustlers in Harlem and Boston. Unsure of their exact addresses, I send the letters to bars and clubs they frequented. I know them all.
I write to them about Black history that has been whitewashed, Allah, Islam, and Mr. Muhammad. I inform them of our identity, our true identity as Black men, our history that has been whitewashed, that we are the very backbone of our nation.
No reply. I keep going …
The mayor of Boston. The governor of Massachusetts. President Truman.
I tell them how, per my studies, the white man is solely responsible for the Black man’s condition and that this crisis must be addressed and reprimanded as such.
No reply.
* * *
I’m doing so much writing, I think to try my hand at a little poetry. There’s something about making a string of words say all the things I can’t. I write a special poem in dedication to the man who taught me how to pray.
MUSIC
Music is not created
It is always here
Surrounding us
Like an infinite particle that constitutes life, it cannot be seen but can only be felt
Like Allah,
like life.
No ’tis not created, but like the never dying soul, permeates the air with its presence
Ever waiting for its Master
The Lordly Musician
The Wielder of the souls
To come and give it an earthly body
Making it into a song.
Music without the Musician is like life without Allah
Both in desperate need of a home,
a body
The completed song
and its Creator
* * *
“What’s this word?” Ozzy asks, holding the book up to his face.
At our table in the library, I lean over to examine the word he underlines with his finger.
“‘Dif-fi-cult.’ Got to try sounding it out just as we practiced.”
Ozzy fidgets, pulling the book closer, his eyes narrowing to see.
“It’s all right, brother,” I say, patting him on the back. “You take all the time you need.”
After one of the last debates, Ozzy asked if I could teach him how to read. Never thought I’d be much of a teacher but the more I learn, the more I want others to learn as well. Plus, it’s an act of service, to help my brother.
“This may have been a little easier when I was younger,” Ozzy admits. “Didn’t do much schooling, left that to my brother. I went ahead and started working at fourteen.” He laughs. “Tell me again what Big Lee’s looking like
now.”
I grin. “Well, he’s big. But you still got a few inches on him. Everyone calls him a gentle giant, especially with that voice of his.”
“Glad he still singing for the Lord,” Ozzy says, beaming with pride. “Been in choir since he was a boy.”
Talking about Big Lee makes me think of all the brothers back in the shop at Charlestown. About Bembry and his wise words. About Chucky. Feels like I abandoned them, leaving for greener pastures.
I glance across the table at Shorty, who’s studying up on Plato for our weekly book discussion. If I was able to teach Shorty what I knew about Islam, maybe I can teach others.
“This is gonna sound a little … wild,” I start, unable to believe the words slipping from my inner thoughts.
“Oh boy,” Shorty chuckles, marking his page. “Let’s hear it.”
“I need to go back to Charlestown.”
Shorty raises an eyebrow, leaning in. “Uh, you feeling all right, homeboy? You hit your head or something? Why would you ever want to go back to that hell?”
“I just keep thinking of all the brothers there, how much they’re suffering because they don’t know all this we’ve been learning, man. If only they had access to this knowledge. I can teach them about their real history … Think about it.”
Ozzy shakes his head. “You can’t sacrifice yourself like that. That place ain’t fit for a dog.”
“The Honorable Elijah Muhammad would.”
“He’d really do that?” Ozzy asks, intrigued.
“Do you know he takes the time to respond to every single brother who reaches out to him? Look how he turned my life around. Sent his own money to a complete stranger. And here I am—anew. When’s the last time you’ve seen a minister do that?”
Ozzy seems overwhelmed at the thought. I’m ready to answer all their looming questions.
“What’s going on, brothers!” Akil comes in just then. His face is sweaty but his lips seem dry. He may be coming down with something. “And, what you doing down here, Ozzy?”
Ozzy huffs. “Can’t a man read in peace? And what did I hear about you missing work duty yesterday.”
“Yeah, where you been, homeboy?” Shorty asks. “You missed class this morning.”
“And ain’t I lucky,” Akil jokes. “Our dorm was sent down to the infirmary yesterday for testing.”
“Testing? What kind of testing?”
“I don’t know. They just gave us this shot to see if it works.”
An alarm goes off in my head. I close my book, giving him my full attention.
“Oh yeah, they mentioned something about that,” Ozzy says. “They sending our dorm down this afternoon. Skipping work duty, too.”
“But a shot for what?” I’m anxious now.
Akil twist his lips, struggling with the name.
“Tie-flood or something. Not too sure. They said they just testing things out like a vaccine, but we shouldn’t feel nothing.”
“Sounds like they’re … experimenting,” I say, glancing at Shorty. He immediately follows my drift. Something is up.
“So how you feeling?” Shorty asks.
Akil shrugged. “To tell you the truth, not so good. Might head back down to the nurse. I was just stopping by to return some books.”
Ozzy sighs and begins to stand.
“Well, I better head down and get my shot, too, I guess. Don’t want to be feeling sick all night.”
My arm shoots out to grab his.
“No, Ozzy. You’re not going anywhere, brother.”
* * *
Frankie grumbles under his breath. “Where this red nigger get off, thinking he better than everybody?”
Alfred stays quiet, his eyes down. He doesn’t talk to me anymore. He almost seems frightened.
“Ain’t no nigger gonna run around here thinking he’s better than me,” Frankie mumbles.
I ignore the ignorance. Allah, my books, and letters are my priority. This new zest for life feels foreign and yet sacred. Something I don’t want to give up. Never want to go back to that dark place again. I’m ready to stand on the sun, in my truth, serving Allah and His righteousness. I’m ready to free my people from Jim Crow’s leash. I’m ready to wake my people up.
Toward the end of our shift, Alfred moves closer, angling himself in a way that makes it seem like he isn’t talking to me.
“Thought you’d be down getting your shot today,” he mumbles as he dumps another pile of trays into the sink.
“Not taking it,” I grunt.
“Why not?”
I consider ignoring him, but think of what Mom once told me—You don’t want to drown your seeds, you never know what may grow.
“That typhoid shot is dangerous,” I warn. “Brother Akil still isn’t all the way right. Why are we entrusting this place, these white men, with our health when they’ve never given us reason to trust them at all? Ask yourself this question, Alfred: Why aren’t they injecting themselves with a potential ‘cure’ to see if it works? Why must we be their test subjects?”
Alfred hesitates then finally says, “They ain’t been nothing but good to you. Seeing where you came from, why can’t you show them some respect?”
I look him square in the eye.
“Brother, you might be fine with accepting scraps as gold. But I never will be.”
* * *
My stomach ties itself in knots so tight I can barely stand still. We watch the judges tally our scores, but they seem to be debating one another for so long I almost think we should switch places onstage.
The boys from Clark University had obviously heard about our team’s record, nearly undefeated, and they came overprepared for today’s topic: Should European Immigration to America Be Unlimited?
One of the white boys even tried to copy my cadence, so I winked at him. He was rather good. But it was discomforting, hearing him parrot me. Watching a white man steal from you in plain sight is a theme in every Black man’s life.
We had read up on them in a recent profile the school had in Life magazine. Incredible campus, smiling faces, with an “unbeatable debate team.”
But still, something feels off.
“Chill, homeboy,” Shorty whispers next to me. “We got this.”
“Yeah, I know,” I mumble.
The room is filled with tense whispers. Offstage, Winslow is quietly arguing with Nash and O’Connell. Twice they look over their shoulders, directly at me.
Something is wrong.
* * *
“But it doesn’t make sense,” Shorty shouts the next day as our team gathers for a post-debate recap. “We had them! You know we did.”
Nash and O’Connell sit at the front of the classroom, looking just as defeated as we are. The team is outraged by the loss.
“Fellas, I know. It’s … complicated. For many reasons.”
“Unfortunately, you fellas have gained quite a reputation for yourselves,” O’Connell says, then looks directly at me. “Some think you’re too articulate, too outspoken. It comes across as arrogant. Shows a lack of discernment about knowing your … place.”
This isn’t about the debate at all. This is about me.
Nash tries to reason with me. “Malcolm, take this from me, a defeat, like this one, will only set you up for greater victories.”
With a sharp nod, I walk out the classroom, Nash calling after me. I am done with Norfolk’s debate team. If there’s no winning for a Black man even when he’s right, then why am I wasting my time representing the very people who hold me back?
* * *
“So what is this I hear about you refusing to take the vaccine test?” Winslow sits behind his desk, fingers webbed together, a sharpness in his voice. He hasn’t even spared a smile.
“Malcolm, I thought we had an understanding,” he says. “We’re here to help you. But you have to help us in return.”
“By sacrificing my health?” I ask.
“Malcolm, this isn’t just about you. You’ve compelled others t
o follow your lead and refuse the shot. We both know you’re very persuasive. We’ve seen it in your debates. Everyone has.”
This doesn’t seem like a compliment. Winslow is losing his patience.
“Compel. From the Latin words com and pellere, means to urge, by force or pressure. I simply asked a few questions: What is the typhoid shot for and why do we need to take it? If the answer is uncomplicated and of reasonable intentions, a reasonable answer should be available.”
Winslow slams a palm down on the table.
“This is not one of your debates!” he shouts. “I don’t have to answer your questions. You answer mine! You’re the prisoner here!”
His nostrils flare, face red and dampening. Leaning back in my chair, I hold in a smirk.
“Believe me, I never assumed I was simply a guest. But this body still belongs to me, no matter where it’s housed.”
Winslow blinks, mouth gaping. Slowly, he composes himself, sitting upright in his seat, tapping his desk as he speaks.
“Look, I believe you have promise, and I’d like to see you a reformed man walking out of here. But prisoners who don’t comply with direct orders will be transferred out of Norfolk, specifically back to Charlestown. Is that what you want?”
My mouth dries and I glance out the window behind him. At the gardens, the fresh air, the trees, the men playing baseball. A facade of paradise. Beside Winslow’s hand is the folder with that pile of pictures. Brothers in suits walking out of here, free. Overwhelmed by the reprieve of this place, I thought I would be one of them someday.
But if I’m called to drive people to the light, I need to meet them in the dark.
“Did you know that there are five religions accepted in this facility, but not one of them is Islam? Are you worried it may give people too many ideas?”
The Awakening of Malcolm X Page 18
